


What a Wicked Game to Play

by akitsuko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Grinding, Hurt John Watson, It's For a Case, Jealous John, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John is a Bit Not Good, John is not particularly remorseful, Love Confessions, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Pining John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is emotionally manipulative and John punches him, Sherlock is hot, Smut, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsuko/pseuds/akitsuko
Summary: When John has to watch Sherlock flirt with someone else, it fills him with jealousy and forces him to face his not-so-platonic feelings for his best friend. But Sherlock has ulterior motives.





	What a Wicked Game to Play

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be short and smutty, but I got a bit carried away.
> 
> Not proof-read.

When Mycroft is describing the importance of the function he wants them to attend this coming Saturday evening, John is only half listening. He chips in with the occasional hum or grunt, but leaves the majority of the verbal bargaining to Sherlock. The function is apparently going to be a veritable who’s who of high society; indoor fountains, free-flowing champagne, marble floors and Armani suits, that sort of thing. It’s not for a case, exactly, and no one’s been killed - at least, not yet - so Mycroft is really having to work hard to sell the reason he wants them there. Sherlock certainly doesn’t seem to be interested, and it’s not exactly the kind of event that appeals to John either.

 

There will be someone in attendance, Mycroft tells them. A woman. He knows her personally, and he suspects that she may have some involvement in a terror cell operating throughout London. He needs more information, but she’s smarter than he had initially given her credit for, and she has been incredibly careful about giving him nothing to work with. Her position on the social ladder means that she is also familiar with the majority of the people who might be officially used to acquire information or evidence, and as such she has not yet been caught out, and any tracks she may have left have always been well covered. Therefore, Mycroft finds himself inclined to use less official avenues of investigation; perhaps she will slip up if she is conversing with someone she does not believe to be a potential threat. However, it is also imperative that this unknown is astute enough to recognise such a slip if it were to occur. Sherlock is the obvious choice.

 

Sherlock yawns, loudly and dramatically.

 

All expenses paid, of course, Mycroft says. At such an event, and with such an agenda, it is important to blend in and avoid any unnecessary attention. Turning up in a black cab and wearing ill-fitting clothes would undoubtedly mark them as… not belonging. They should think of it as a short, luxury break, and all Mycroft really asked in return was a little undercover surveillance.

 

John snorts. Faking his way into a gathering of the high and mighty isn’t exactly his idea of a ‘luxury break’, and one glance at Sherlock’s face confirms that he’s thinking along the same lines. This is a man who wore a bed sheet to Buckingham Palace, after all. And Sherlock opens his mouth, no doubt to issue a scathing rebuttal, but his face changes and the words seem to die on his tongue.

 

John watches, curious, as Sherlock’s mind works. For a few moments, he is unseeing and unhearing as he thinks. Perhaps something Mycroft said has just clicked in a different and far more interesting way. John tries to follow his thought process, or at least deduce what has given him pause for thought, but as usual he has absolutely no idea what it might be. Mycroft’s expression is carefully schooled, but he too fails to completely hide his curiosity about what has prompted this potential change of mind.

 

“Alright,” Sherlock announces, to John’s bemusement. “Make the necessary arrangements. We would be delighted to mingle with the upper classes and interrogate your national security concerns.”

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows slightly. “Discretion is imperative, brother mine. Our national security would be appreciative if you could resist any urges to make a scene.”

 

John catches Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, and he recognises a playfulness there that is rarely present unless Sherlock is successfully winding Mycroft up. His lips curve up into a grin, sharing in the joke, before he averts his gaze down and attempts to put a serious face back on. It’s hard, because he enjoys seeing Mycroft’s exasperation at their slightly childish humour too.

 

Mycroft leaves a short time later, having presented Sherlock with a file on the woman in question and given his assurances that he will take care of all the logistics and practicalities, while imploring one last time that Sherlock can find it in himself to behave sensibly when it counts. Sherlock gives the contents of the file a cursory glance before throwing the whole lot onto the table to be forgotten about, and John eyes him suspiciously.

 

“You’re not at all interested in talking to this woman, are you?” he asks, trying again to figure out why Sherlock changed his mind about attending the event.

 

“Nope,” Sherlock confirms.

 

“So why are we going?”

 

“It would spoil the experiment if I told you,” comes the reply, as if it’s utterly obvious, and John realises with a sinking feeling that this is going to be another one of those times where he almost ends up being murdered or giving himself a panic-induced heart attack just because Sherlock has seen fit not to keep him fully informed. But he doesn’t object, because if he’s honest with himself, chasing these adrenaline highs with Sherlock beside him is what he lives for, and Sherlock knows it too.

 

So instead, he heaves a sigh and wonders what he’s supposed to wear for such an event.

 

###

 

It turns out he needn’t have worried, since the next day one of Mycroft’s cars arrives to take the two of them to an appointment with an eye-wateringly expensive tailor. All expenses paid, John has to keep reminding himself as he’s measured and moved into different positions like a mannequin. He’s completely out of his comfort zone as he’s invited to peruse the different luxury fabrics available and compare colours that to his untrained eye appear identical, although he notices that Sherlock takes to the experience like a duck to water, discussing thread counts and God only knows what else. It’s a relief to him when all the details of their custom suits are finalised and they are climbing back into the casual familiarity of a taxi.

 

“Is there anything else I should know about?” John asks while they’re on their way back to Baker Street.

 

“Mycroft will have arranged a shoe fitting, and I also expect we’ll be asked to undergo a certain level of grooming.”

 

“I’m sorry?” John isn’t sure that he’s heard correctly. “’Grooming’?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock gestures to his face, either unsure how to elaborate or simply choosing not to. “You know.”

 

John isn’t sure that he does know. Nevertheless, he nods.

 

Two days later, they are taken back to the tailor, where their suits are tested for sizing and cut, and marked for any necessary alterations. The car waits for them, and they are then dropped off for what Sherlock correctly predicted would be a shoe fitting. This is slightly less alien territory for John, and he chooses the pair that feels the most comfortable while resolutely avoiding asking anything about the price. Sherlock’s shoe selection is dressier, shinier, statement-making, and John absently observes that they are a perfect match to the ‘show-off’ aspect of Sherlock’s personality.

 

It’s Saturday morning before John becomes made aware of what Sherlock meant by ‘grooming’. The black car with tinted windows pulls up outside 221b, and a man with a sullen expression delivers two sizeable boxes into their living room.

 

“The suits, I suppose?” John wonders aloud, and the man simply nods in response as he sets them down on the sofa. Sherlock doesn’t even look up; he’s perched on the edge of his armchair, texting at the speed of light.

 

The man straightens again. “At the request of Mr Holmes, I must ask that both of you step into the car outside.”

 

John is puzzled. “Where are we going this time?”

 

“We,” Sherlock cuts in, “are not going anywhere. You can tell my brother that I have made my own perfectly adequate arrangements. John will accompany you alone.” He smirks at the look John shoots him. “Go on, John. It won’t be so bad.”

 

Realising that trying to argue would be a futile effort, John resigns himself to whatever this fate may be, and picks up his jacket as he stands and follows Mycroft’s intermediary to the car.

 

It turns out that this destination is what he can only describe, when he arrives, as some kind of high-class spa, and he is immediately taken to a private room where he is whisked through a series of vanity treatments. His face is subjected to so many creams and scrubs that he fears he’ll have no skin left when he is next given the opportunity to look in a mirror. His hair is washed, trimmed, and styled, and his hands are expertly manicured. He is also given a professional shave and a complementary back, neck and shoulder massage. He had been apprehensive when he arrived, but much to his surprise he’s begun to thoroughly enjoy himself by the time that the team working on him announce that their work is done. He’s feeling relaxed and full of energy. Then he sees his reflection for the first time since he arrived, and while he doesn’t feel that he looks drastically different, there’s certainly a fresh youthfulness that wasn’t there before. He looks… well, groomed, and he can’t help but grin a little at the burst of extra confidence it gives him.

 

He idly wonders whether Mycroft could be persuaded to arrange this sort of pampering on a more regular basis.

 

It’s mid-afternoon by the time he is dropped back off at Baker Street, and an unanswered call of “Sherlock?” confirms that his flatmate is out. There are still a couple of hours before the car is due to collect them for the function, so he sets about making himself some tea in the kitchen.

 

“Is that you, John?” Mrs Hudson’s voice calls as he hears her footsteps shuffling up the stairs.

 

“In the kitchen.”

 

In moments, she rounds the corner, and when he turns to greet her, he notes how her expression changes immediately to one of surprise and joy. “Oh, look at you, John!” she exclaims. “You’ve been and had your hair done! You look terribly smart. Such a small change, but it’s taken years off you.” Then she lowers her voice, adding in hushes tones with a conspirational grin, “Trying to impress Sherlock?”

 

She’s absolutely convinced that he and Sherlock are an item, regardless of anything he ever says to the contrary, so these days he doesn’t waste his breath trying too hard to deny it. “No, I’m not trying to impress Sherlock. It was Mycroft’s idea. For a case. Sort of.”

 

She is every inch the insufferable mother-figure as her grin widens further and she says, “He’s going to love it anyway.”

 

He smiles and shakes his head softly. These conversations with her have a troubling habit of bringing feelings to the surface that he normally manages to keep suppressed. While it’s true that he hasn’t been freshened up for Sherlock’s benefit, he can’t deny that it would fill his heart with warmth if Sherlock were to show an appreciation of his physical appearance. After all, he’s always admiring everything about Sherlock, although he thinks he does a pretty good job of keeping most of those observations to himself, and it would be nice to have some of those feelings reciprocated, if only for a few moments.

 

He wishes he shared Mrs Hudson’s confidence. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

 

“Oh, only if you’re not too busy, love?”

 

The two of them are sitting at the kitchen table and chatting when, a short while later, John hears the door to the flat slam shut and Sherlock’s unmistakeable footsteps coming up the stairs. Mrs Hudson moves as if to get to her feet, calling out to him, “You’re back, Sherlock!” and shooting John a wicked smile, continues, “You must come in here and see what John has-”

 

But Sherlock’s voice cuts her off with a curt, “Busy, Hudders,” and he doesn’t even come into the living room. His footsteps carry on down the hallway and seconds later he has shut himself in his bedroom. Perplexed, Mrs Hudson gives John a questioning look. John just smiles, shrugs, and takes another sip of his tea, pretending that he doesn’t feel a tiny sting of disappointment.

 

Only when Mrs Hudson has disappeared back downstairs and John can’t distract himself any longer with the blog does he decide that he probably ought to change. Sherlock still hasn’t emerged from his bedroom, and in fact the whole flat still seems eerily quiet. John wonders what he’s doing in there, but resists the urge to knock on the door and check if everything is ok. Instead, he takes the box containing his new suit upstairs to his room, and lays out the separate items on his bed.

 

He has to admit, every piece is exquisite. Even with his limited experience in luxury clothing, it’s clear that there has been a level of mastery in the workmanship. He takes the edge of one of the jacket sleeves between his thumb and forefinger and rubs the fabric gently, nothing like the cheap polyester he’s used to. He had opted for black, in the end, figuring that it was a classic for a reason, and the perfectly matched trousers look sharp enough to kill a man. The shirt he chose, a rich cobalt, feels like heaven as he slips it on over his shoulders, and he takes care to ensure that the knot of his silk tie is as tidy as he can manage, smoothing the deep navy fabric down the centre of his chest. The shoes complete the look well. When he turns to give himself a once over in the mirror, he is almost unsettled to discover that he doesn’t quite look like himself, and he realises that he might be able to fake his way into high society with greater ease than he’d originally anticipated.

 

When Mycroft’s car pulls to a stop outside their flat for the second time that day, John has no choice but to try and summon Sherlock out of his room. He stands at the top of the stairs as he shouts, “Sherlock! The car is here. Time to go.”

 

But he’s not prepared for the moment that Sherlock opens the door and steps out into the hallway, adjusting one of his cufflinks. In hindsight, he realises he should have expected this. The combination of tailoring and grooming has worked a minor miracle on his own appearance, and so he shouldn’t be surprised to see that the same is the case for Sherlock. The difference, he supposes, that he failed to account for, is that Sherlock was already an incredibly attractive man. He’s tall and slender, with piercing features and a bone structure to die for. John is used to looking at Sherlock and being attracted to him.

 

But now… now he’s breathtaking.

 

His suit, black also, fits him like a glove, and his plum-coloured shirt offsets his skin tone to give him an almost ethereal quality. The knot in his black tie is slightly more elaborate than John’s own simple Windsor knot. His face is clear and glowing, his eyes are bright, and his hair, while maintaining its wild quality, looks as though every strand has been carefully placed to balance the length of his face and the sharpness of his cheekbones. He still looks like Sherlock, but it’s like he’s no longer carrying the burden of past traumas. John thought he’d seen Sherlock making an effort with his appearance before, but this has taken things to a whole new level. The man scrubs up __damn__  well.

 

Sherlock only meets his gaze for the briefest second as he passes him and begins to descend the stairs. “Mouth closed, John. Come along.”

 

Blinking himself out of his stupor, John follows. It’s going to be more difficult than usual to keep his eyes off Sherlock tonight, that’s for sure.

 

###

 

During the car ride, John tries to discuss their strategy for the evening, but Sherlock appears to be bored with the conversation before it has even begun.

 

“I will make conversation with the target,” he says, although it’s clear that his mind is elsewhere as he stares out of the window. “You will remain close enough to observe both the target and the remainder of the room. When I have collected enough data, we will leave.”

 

“Do you think Mycroft is right about her?”

 

“Almost certainly. Intolerable and infuriating though my brother is, he’s rarely wrong.”

 

John nods thoughtfully. He’s vaguely moved to wonder, once again, why Sherlock agreed to do this in the first place. Honestly, though, he’s just making conversation in an attempt to distract himself, and to disguise his desire to openly stare at Sherlock. At least if Sherlock wants him to keep his distance this evening, he’ll have a little more leeway to ogle.

 

When they arrive and get out of the car, John feels as though he can almost smell money in the air. He subconsciously straightens his posture, and his hand comes up to tug nervously at his collar. Then Sherlock is standing beside him, and their eyes meet, and John’s breath catches in his throat at the sparkle of excitement in Sherlock’s expression. “The game is on,” Sherlock says, a grin tugging at his lips. “Are you ready?”

 

And instantly, John feels better. His heart pounds in his chest as he remembers that Sherlock hasn’t yet shared the extent of his interest in this mission, and he replies, “Always.”

 

Sherlock gestures for John to go ahead of him, and his hand drops to the small of John’s back to guide him gently but firmly through the huge set of double doors, held open for them by two immaculately dressed members of staff. The contact is unexpected, and a shock to John’s system; however, by the time he regains enough presence of mind to turn and ask Sherlock what he’s doing, the hand is gone and Sherlock has vanished somewhere into the throng of the rich and important.

 

Right. He should have figured.

 

He helps himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, and decides to find the free-flowing bar he was promised.

 

As he makes his way through the crowds of immaculately dressed figures, many recognisable and just as many unfamiliar, he tries to give off an aura of belonging. Under the guise of admiring the splendour of the venue, he attempts to locate either Sherlock or the woman they’re here to investigate. Mycroft hadn’t been exaggerating when he had described the extravagance of the function. In the centre of the main hall stands a huge and ornate fountain, with wide, curved staircases adorning both sides of the room. The ceilings are high, and the architecture everywhere John looks is simply stunning.

 

He’s filled with relief when he finds the bar, and he makes a beeline for it, wasting no time in getting himself another drink before settling back and casting his gaze over the room. It’s not long before, to his continued relief, he spots Sherlock over by the opposite wall. He’s conversing with someone. A woman. Their target, John realises as he recognises her from the photos in Mycroft’s file. He does as Sherlock has asked him, and observes.

 

He can only see her in profile, but she looks younger than he expected. She, too, is immaculately turned out. Her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders, glossy and not a strand out of place. Her lips are a deep red, and even from this distance John can see that the colour is a perfect complement to her dark eyes. Her dress is gold and eye-catching, clinging to every curve of her well-toned body. She is almost as tall as Sherlock; John can’t see properly because of the people obscuring his view, but he assumes she’s wearing some spectacularly high heels to accomplish that.

 

Sherlock certainly seems to be doing a good job of getting her to talk. Trust him to get straight down to business. John has no idea what they’re saying, but her body language is open, and she’s smiling. One hand reaches up to twirl in her hair, and she laughs at something Sherlock has said. John notices that her teeth are perfectly white and straight. There’s a slight curve to her spine, deliberate, to emphasise her chest. She laughs again, and her free hand comes up to rest gently on Sherlock’s bicep.

 

John’s expression dissolves into a frown as he belatedly realises that this woman is __flirting__  with Sherlock. He so rarely observes anyone even treating Sherlock with kindness, so this is a punch to the gut that he didn’t expect and he doesn’t know what to do with. Possessiveness rises up in him, unbidden and frankly unwelcome. Sherlock isn’t his to possess, for a start. He forces himself to relax his grip on his glass, which has tightened without his permission, and he reminds himself that whoever chooses to flirt with Sherlock is none of his business, and that they’re only here to get information out of this woman anyway. So if she wants to flirt with Sherlock, it can only be beneficial to their cause.

 

He drinks a little too quickly and relishes the distraction that the burn of the alcohol in his throat brings. He needs to get a grip.

 

Except when he can bring himself to look over at them again, this time he looks at Sherlock, and he sees the way Sherlock is leaning his body towards her, maintaining eye contact with her, smiling back at her. No doubt dazzling her and charming her. Flirting back.

 

John quickly sets his glass down on the bar to prevent himself dropping it. Suddenly he feels like he’s going to be sick, and he wants nothing more than to get out of this room and into the fresh air. So he does, resolutely keeping his gaze away from Sherlock and this woman.

 

He doesn’t stop when he gets outside the doors; instead, he walks around until he finds a quiet spot at the edge of the building, where he is unlikely to be seen by anyone passing. He leans against the wall, covers his face with his hands and takes a long, deep breath. But the fresh air does nothing to calm his racing mind, or to quell the surge of jealousy that has his stomach turning, making him want to tear into this woman and destroy her, just to ensure that Sherlock can never look at her like that again.

 

This jealousy is irrational, he tries to tell himself. This anger is equally so. So he thinks, desperately, and tries to make sense of himself.

 

It’s tough, because he’s never been forced to evaluate his feelings for Sherlock in quite such a stark light before. They’ve always just been briefly acknowledged, and swiftly tucked away somewhere that he doesn’t need to pay any attention to them. Tonight, he’d walked into this party at Sherlock’s side, both of them dressed to the nines, and underneath all his apprehension he’d been filled with pride to know that people would see them together, and some would even have noticed the moment that Sherlock had rested his hand on John’s back, and that certain assumptions would be made about them. He had expected to watch as Sherlock talked to their target, making deductions as he did so, maybe catching her off guard. He’d expected to see surprise on her face, and he’d expected to feel a sort of smug sense of satisfaction that this brilliant man was his best friend, and he’d expected to feel assured that he was the only person in the world that Sherlock Holmes could be considered close to.

 

He had absolutely not expected that his importance to Sherlock would feel threatened by someone else. And he realises with a sinking feeling that this is the only reason he’s been able to keep his love for Sherlock suppressed for such a long time - because he’s never had any reason to fear losing Sherlock to anyone else.

 

Even if Sherlock is only flirting to get information - which is almost certainly the case - seeing it happen has introduced John to the very real and unpleasant possibility that another person has the potential to come between them. Sherlock has never shown any interest in romantic or sexual relationships with anybody, but that’s not to say that if the right sort of interesting person came into his life…

 

And John feels even sicker at the (not unfamiliar) realisation that he is not the right sort of interesting person for Sherlock. Yes, he holds an important position in Sherlock’s life as his best friend, but he doesn’t have whatever qualities Sherlock would need to elevate him to anything more. If someone were to come into his life who did… well, based on the intensity of what he’s feeling in the face of a little flirting, John isn’t entirely sure that the jealousy wouldn’t tear him apart.

 

The image of Sherlock reciprocating the woman’s flirtatious behaviour won’t leave his mind. He’s overwhelmed by emotion and he knows he’s being ridiculous, but he can’t help it. Somewhere deep inside himself, he’d always hoped that if Sherlock was going to flirt with someone, it would be him.

 

He’s starting to regret leaving his drink on the bar in his hurry to get out of the room. He doesn’t think he has enough alcohol in his system to deal with this influx of emotional realisation.

 

“John?”

 

He’s surprised that Sherlock has followed him outside. He normally deals with the case first and considers the wellbeing of others later, if at all. Although John knew that Sherlock would have noticed his absence from the room, he figured he would have had considerably longer to compose himself before Sherlock might have sought him out, so he’s feeling unprepared, exposed, and suddenly defensive.

 

“What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in there, __interrogating__?” He can’t help but spit the word out, because that certainly wasn’t what Sherlock was doing moments ago.

 

Sherlock approaches him, eyes slightly narrowed and his expression a bit puzzled and a bit something else. “What are __you__  doing out here?” he retorts. “I know I asked you to observe from a distance, but I’m not sure what you expect to see from outside the building.”

 

“I can’t watch that,” John says before he has the chance to think better of it, and he covers his face again to hide his warring emotions from Sherlock’s discerning gaze. He’s definitely not had enough alcohol to handle Sherlock seeing into his soul right now. He feels more than sees it as Sherlock comes closer, crowds his personal space, and the silence that hangs between them is deafening. Sherlock thinks, and John keeps hiding.

 

“Don’t be angry, John.”

 

Angry. Angry doesn’t even come close to summarising how he feels right now. He says nothing, rubs his hands over his face. He just wants to go home.

 

“I had to be sure.”

 

John sighs, resigned. “And are you?”

 

“I believe I am.” Sherlock’s fingers wrap gently around John’s, attempting to coax them away from his face. “Your reaction was telling, although I didn’t anticipate that I might cause you pain.”

 

“What?” John does look at Sherlock now. He’s missed something. The knowledge that Sherlock never revealed his full agenda for the evening returns to niggle at him. “I meant the woman. She’s definitely a terrorist, then?”

 

Now it is Sherlock’s turn to look bewildered, as if John has just changed the subject entirely. “What? Yes, John, I told you that already, in the car. Mycroft is almost never wrong. Her involvement in the cell is obvious from the file.”

 

“Why did we come here, Sherlock?” John’s voice drops; he’s still trying to keep his emotions under control. “If you already knew that, what are we doing here?”

 

Sherlock, so close and completely stunning under the moonlight, fingers still loosely wrapped around John’s hands, gives him an odd look. It’s a look John has seen before, a look that says, ‘isn’t it obvious?’ “I needed to know about you, John. You’re attracted to me, physically. This event gave me an opportunity to capitalise on that and assess whether there was anything beyond physical attraction.”

 

John takes a moment to absorb the words. In addition to the residual jealousy and anger, embarrassment and shame begin to swell in his guts. His heart races and his breathing picks up as he locks his gaze on Sherlock’s, which is steady and unrepentant. “You… this… that, in there, with her. You wanted to see how I would react?”

 

He’s trying so hard to remain calm.

 

“Like I said,” Sherlock replies, “don’t be angry.”

 

John can’t remember a time he’s felt so full of fury. Fury with Sherlock for treating his feelings like some kind of experiment, fury with himself for being so blindsided by his love for Sherlock that he didn’t see something like this coming. He snaps, wrenches his hands away, and delivers a solid hook to the side of Sherlock’s face that sends him sprawling onto the ground. He wants to throttle him, and his eyes are hot with rage.

 

“Fuck you, Sherlock,” he hisses. “You can’t do things like this.”

 

He storms away from the building and away from Sherlock without looking back. He walks in the cool night air aimlessly until his immediate anger has dissipated a little, leaving in its wake a complex and unpleasant mixture of negative emotion that makes it difficult to unscramble his thoughts. He’s disgusted by Sherlock’s behaviour. He’d known that Sherlock usually failed to take the feelings of others into account before he acted, but he’d never thought that the man would be callous enough to do that to him. In a way, he blamed himself for allowing it to happen; he should never have expected that he could matter enough that Sherlock would spare him. He’s been stupid, overestimating his own importance, and the realisation that Sherlock’s regard for him is so low is a pain around his heart.

 

Only when the chill starts to bite into his skin does he hail a taxi back to Baker Street, and he’s relieved to see that none of the lights are on when he arrives. He’s not ready to face Sherlock yet.

 

But he realises that being alone isn’t what he needs right now either. He doesn’t think he can possibly feel more humiliated than he already does, so instead of going up the stairs to their flat, he knocks on Mrs Hudson’s door.

 

The smile she greets him with as she opens the door fades quickly as she takes in the pained expression on his face. “What’s happened, John?”

 

“Do you mind if I come in?” John’s voice is sheepish and tired. “I could do with some friendly company right now.”

 

She ushers him in and sits him down on the sofa before fetching some tea.

 

John is not normally the sort of person to air his deepest feelings, but he’s feeling heartbroken, and he ends up blurting out the entire situation to Mrs Hudson. He tells her about how desperately he loves Sherlock. He tells her about the case for Mycroft, and his voice breaks as he tells her about how Sherlock treated the whole thing as a game to expose John’s feelings. He tells her that he punched Sherlock in the face and left him there, and he confesses that he can’t see a way to fix this. How can he continue to live alongside Sherlock, knowing how little Sherlock thinks of him?

 

Mrs Hudson makes no attempt to hide how appalled she is by the way Sherlock has behaved. John makes a token effort to tell her not to worry, that he just needed to get it all off his chest to someone who wouldn’t judge and who might understand how difficult Sherlock can be to deal with. But he’s exhausted from trainwreck of emotions he’s been forced to endure this evening, and he gratefully accepts Mrs Hudson’s offer to let him sleep on the sofa so that he doesn’t have to handle Sherlock until he’s ready. She gives him a blanket and a pillow, and he collapses into sleep within a few minutes of lying down, heart still breaking and expensive suit still on.

 

###

 

When he wakes up, he’s cramped and uncomfortable, and it takes him a second to remember where he is. Sunlight streams through Mrs Hudson’s gaudy curtains. He tries to stretch, and finds his movement restricted by the suit he’s wearing, and suddenly the events of the previous evening return to his memory like a kick to the teeth. He groans and rubs his eyes, then realises what it is that woke him up.

 

Mrs Hudson’s voice. She’s talking to someone. No, she’s scolding someone.

 

“You awful man!” she says. “How could you do what you did to John?”

 

Then Sherlock’s voice. John doesn’t want to listen, but he can’t help it. “He’s the one who hit me.”

 

The sound of a slap makes John jump a little. “It’s the least you deserved!” Mrs Hudson says. Did she just slap Sherlock? “How dare you toy with him like that? The poor man is heartbroken!”

 

“Oh please, Mrs Hudson, if you-”

 

“No, you listen to me, young man. For someone who’s supposed to be a genius, you can be incredibly stupid. If you wanted to know whether John loves you, all you needed to do was look at him. Anyone could see it! You had no right to ‘experiment’ on him like you did yesterday. What a pointless and hurtful thing to do to someone who loves you.”

 

“I needed to know!” Sherlock is raising his voice now.

 

“And now John doesn’t even want to look at you. Don’t you realise what you’ve done? You need to reach out and make amends, Sherlock, otherwise you’re going to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

 

“When I want the advice of a former wife of a drug lord, I’ll let you know.” Sherlock’s footsteps ascend the stairs, and John hears the door slam shut.

 

Mrs Hudson comes into the living room a few moments later. “Oh, John, you’re awake. How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

 

John sits up. His stomach rumbles, but the thought of eating makes him feel queasy. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but I think I’d better go and face this.” Truthfully, there is nothing he would like to do less, but he figures the sooner he gets it over with, the better.

 

“I’ve just given him a piece of my mind,” Mrs Hudson tells him. “But he’s stubborn, you know what he’s like. If he refuses to see sense, you tell him he’ll get my boot up his backside.”

 

John can’t deny that it’s nice to know that Mrs Hudson is on his side. He steels himself before leaving her flat, and slowly climbing the stairs to the one he shares with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the living room, his back to John, also still in his suit from yesterday. It occurs to John that Sherlock must have been out all night. John stands in the doorway and tries to think of the best thing to say, but Sherlock beats him to it.

 

“It wasn’t a game.”

 

“It was cruel, Sherlock.”

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, John. It is never my intention to hurt you.” He turns to face John. His cheek is swollen and sporting a large, dark bruise. His eye on the same side is bloodshot. John feels a tinge of remorse for causing this damage, but he feels justified when he remembers that the emotional damage Sherlock inflicted on him was so much worse.

 

“Just tell me. Truthfully. Do I matter to you at all?”

 

It is this simple question that seems to make Sherlock realise exactly what he’s done, and how he’s made John feel, and the gravity of the situation they find themselves in. He crosses the room to John quickly, hesitating for a moment before raising his hands to grasp John by the shoulders. “I’m sorry that I made you feel like you don’t matter. You should know that you matter more than anyone else. You are everything.”

 

John’s voice is a whisper; he fears it will break if it’s any louder. “How could you do it?”

 

Sherlock bites his lip. “I needed to know how you felt. I needed to know if it was the same as how I felt. Every time I’ve had to sit here in the flat while you’ve been out on dates, every time I’ve watched you showing a romantic interest in someone else, it’s driven me out of my mind. I need you, John. I can’t lose you. I see that this perhaps wasn’t the best way to get the information I needed, but I didn’t realise that my behaviour would affect you like this. Forgive me.”

 

John closes his eyes as he realises that they’ve both been so foolish. He’s still angry about the way Sherlock has acted, and he’s still embarrassed by how easily his emotions have been manipulated. He’s exhausted from his broken sleep and his jumbled thoughts. But he can see that, in this moment, Sherlock is trying to be honest with him, he’s trying to fix what he’s almost destroyed, and even now, John can’t begrudge him forgiveness when he asks for it with such sincerity. And somewhere in there, he heard the admission of something else, of a form of sentiment that Sherlock normally tries so hard to distance himself from, and now he’s exposing that vulnerability to John, and John feels humbled too.

 

“You should have just asked,” he says.

 

“You would have lied.”

 

“You would have been able to tell.”

 

“True.” Sherlock tries for a smile, and John can’t help but return it. He almost laughs, and he finds that he’s feeling a little brave and reckless.

 

“Ask me.”

 

“John.” Sherlock’s hands come up from his shoulders to frame his face, his thumbs gently stroking over John’s cheeks. He leans ever closer, his lips slightly parted, but he’s not sure. “Tell me.”

 

John takes a deep breath. “It is what it is.” And he meets Sherlock halfway, closing the gap between them, pressing their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss that lingers for what feels like a lifetime.

 

When they separate, it is only by a hair’s breadth. John searches Sherlock’s eyes for deception, and finds none. Then it’s as if a dam is broken; Sherlock kisses him again, this time with urgency and passion, taking John’s breath away as he tightens his grip on John’s face, and John’s arms come up to wrap around Sherlock’s torso, pulling their bodies flush together. Sherlock backs him into the nearest wall, pinning him there with his mouth and his chest and his hips, and all John can do is cling to him and kiss him back.

 

He feels the hot sting of tears behind his eyes, and so he squeezes them shut, wills himself to feel only the joyous relief that Sherlock wants this with him, wants to hold him and touch him and kiss him. One of Sherlock’s hands reaches behind his head to fist in his hair and the other drops behind him, settling firmly on the small of his back, the same place it had briefly rested only the previous evening.

 

Sherlock breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together, giving them both a moment to catch their breath. “John,” and his voice wavers, that same uncertainly again, “if this isn’t what you want, you have to stop me.”

 

John’s answer to that is to kiss him again. He never thought he’d have the opportunity to kiss Sherlock, and he’s not about to let this chance get away from him. If he’s dreaming, he intends to make the most of it before he wakes up. He gets his hands under Sherlock’s suit jacket, and he tugs the shirt out from where it’s ticked in and slides his hands underneath that too, a small moan rising in his throat when he feels the warmth of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers for the first time. Sherlock’s grip on him tightens in response, and he moves his mouth to press quick, messy kisses along John’s jaw, dropping his head to bite and suck on the skin of his neck as he grinds his hips forwards, pressing unmistakeable evidence of his arousal into John’s own crotch. They groan simultaneously as John bucks his hips in response, and it doesn’t take them long to establish a rhythm, rubbing and rutting against each other.

 

John’s head falls back against the wall with a thump. It’s all happening so quickly, and he knows beyond doubt that he will come just from this before too much time passes. He digs his nails into Sherlock’s back, he feels weak in the knees but with Sherlock’s whole body pinning him, he couldn’t move even if he collapsed. His vision is swimming, and Sherlock’s head comes back up to claim his mouth again, and he whimpers. He bites roughly at Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock’s rhythm stutters for a moment before being established again with renewed vigour, and through the haze of everything John tries to file that interesting piece of information away for later use. He tries it again, deliberately sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s bottom lip, and the sound that comes out of Sherlock is sheer desperation.

 

“I’m not going to last,” John gasps against Sherlock’s mouth, trying to pull him closer, needing more skin contact but unwilling to separate even for a second to achieve it. “Wanted you for too long.” His cock is so hard within the confines of his pants and his tailored trousers, it’s almost painful. He can’t remember the last time he was so turned on, the last time he felt like he was functioning on the pure need to touch and feel, the last time he really felt like he was wanted in return. Sherlock might be a dick pretty much all the time, but this is real. He can feel it. Not least through the urgent grinding of Sherlock’s hips and the insistent press of his erection against John’s body.

 

It’s like Sherlock is trying to climb completely into his skin, and he whines with frustration at the obstruction of their clothes. “Could only ever be you, John,” Sherlock breathes against him, and his brows knit, giving him an almost pained expression as his mouth falls open and his grinding stutters again, his grip on John tightening and his entire body tensing as he rides out his orgasm. John is awed, can’t take his eyes off him, can barely comprehend how Sherlock is allowing John to see him like this.

 

When Sherlock’s eyes open, they’re unfocused, and he is trembling. The hand on John’s back comes around to press against John’s dick through his trousers, and John moans, so close and ridiculously aroused by the sight of Sherlock in the throes of physical pleasure. He grinds shamelessly against Sherlock’s hand, and soon his eyes roll back in his head as his vision blurs and his own orgasm pulses through him, coming in his pants for the first time since he was a horny and inexperienced teenager.

 

Sherlock is still there when he finally comes down from the high. Somewhere in his mind, he’d been irrationally worried that he would come back to real life and discover that Sherlock’s presence had been a figment of his imagination. But one of Sherlock’s hand is still fisted in his hair, and the other is still pressed against his groin, and his head is resting in the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder as he too tries to get his breathing back under control. John relaxes his vice-like grip on Sherlock’s back but keeps his arms where they are, fully intent on enjoying this hazy moment for as long as he can make it last.

 

“I mean it, John,” Sherlock’s deep voice swims into his consciousness. “This could never be for anyone else.”

 

Out of nowhere, the tears that John has been trying to hold back since last night start falling from the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t realised. How could he not have realised? “We have to talk about this,” he says, and his voice is gravelly and broken. He barely recognises it. But he still doesn’t let go of Sherlock, and Sherlock makes no effort of his own to pull away.

 

“Can we shower first?” is Sherlock’s eventual reply, and John huffs out a short laugh.

 

“Yes. Yes, we can.”

 

Slowly, mindful of the mess in both of their pants, they start to disentangle themselves, and when they catch each other’s eyes, they can’t help but dissolve into fits of giggles. They’re a mess, both of them, separately and as a pair. But John has a feeling that they might be able to move forward from this after all.

 

He’ll have to remember to let Mrs Hudson know later.


End file.
